To Be Honest
by browneyesonly4
Summary: Cute little drabbly story about Tony and Ziva returning from an undercover assignment with big news for the rest of the team. Mature language from Tony. That's the only reason it's rated M.
1. Pastels

_A/N: Hello, once again. My best friend, Amy, came up with this prompt a while ago while we were talking about NCIS and Tiva. About what would happen if Tony and Ziva came back from being undercover and then this happened So here it is. It's just a cute little fic. I'm not sure where I'm going with it. It could be a really long story, delving into the emotional side of things, or it could just be a few chapters covering the reactions of everyone from Tiva's point of view. You'll know when I know! Enjoy...Love, Kat_

**_Disclaimer:_**_ Really? You still need me to tell you I'm not the proud owner of NCIS? Bummer, dude._

* * *

"Um…how about, 'I am not sure how to tell you this, but…'"

"No, Ziva, that's not firm enough."

"Well, you certainly thought _I_ was when we—"

"—Ooookay, that's not what we're talking about right now—"

"—But it led to this situation!"

"Ziva, please don't—"

"Let's just figure out what to say and then decide how to agree about what happened." I collect myself and draw a shaky breath, then continue, "Gibbs…I am not sure how to tell you this, because I know you will be disappointed in me, but upon arrival back at home, it appears that—_Tony, stop!_" Glaring, I prepare myself to give him a Gibbs-slap if necessary.

Tony cringes, leans away from my impending hand, and then sighs. "Ziva, all I was trying to do was make Gibbs-face so you know what to look for. He's got warning signs, y'know."

"I can figure it out on my own, thank you." Letting out a huff, I turn and pace away from him. "'Gibbs, I know you will be disappointed in both Tony and myself, but there is something you need to know.' Is that better?"

Tony shrugs. "Yeah, that'll do, I guess."

"You guess?" I question.

"Yeah, I guess. Zeev, I know what's gonna happen. Either you're going to be assigned to desk duty and seen as some sort of dependent, needy creature, or I'm going to be reassigned to another team." Running a hand through his hair, he grumbles, "Trust me, it's one or the other or both, and at this point, I don't think anything's going to change the outcome."

The thought of Tony being reassigned sends an angry shiver down my spine. Not so much 'angry' as 'intimidated', I suppose. How I will be able to deal with this without him is an overwhelming question that I do not currently have the answer to. He and I have gone through so much, what with his saving me from Somalia and all of the other times that he has had my back, that I do not feel as though I can effectively work without him sitting across from me. Without the witty banter, the flirting, the nagging, work at NCIS will not be the same.

And, of course, sitting at a desk all day is not—and I repeat _not_—appealing whatsoever. I am an active woman who enjoys working in the field. I can handle it. I have gone undercover before, without any problems. I pulled through even when others thought I would not. The concept of keeping me at my desk doing paperwork and making phone calls is absolutely ridiculous.

It wasn't _my_ fault that this happened. Nor was it Tony's. We fell prey to our emotions and … well … this is our consequence. And we must deal with it.

In due time, it will surely rectify itself … right?

* * *

How could this have happened? _Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck…No, you know what? That's what got us into this mess._ Yeah, it's a mess, alright. And now we have to explain to our boss why exactly it happened, and what we're going to do about it.

Well, I mean, we can't _stop it_. No, that's wrong. Can't say we didn't think about it at the time, but now it's too late anyway. Or at least, it's too late to the point we'd feel really bad about doing it and it would eat us alive and—_Oh my God, I'm turning into Abby._

Staring across the room at Ziva, I'm flooded with the emotions of a fourteen year old boy. But, then again, when _aren't_ I horny, you know? I'm Anthony DiNozzo Jr. I have a reputation to live up to.

Ugh, that damned reputation of mine is probably what spurred this in the first place. Word probably got around that I can't control my manly urges…as undeniable as they are…and Ziva wanted to test them, and now we're stuck here, trying to figure out what to do because I'm not going to put her through that, nor do I want her job to go down the toilet.

_I need to stop having sex. I'll become celibate. That's it. That's the solution. I'm done. I'm never having sex again._

My thought process is interrupted, however, when Susie From Accounting walks into the lounge and floats down onto a tea chair in the middle of the room, crossing her legs. She's wearing a pencil skirt and tights today, and I can already feel my temperature rising right along with my testosterone levels. But one jealous look from Ziva—well, it's not necessarily jealousy, but to protect my pride, I'm going to go with that—sends both levels right back down to zero.

Zeev's the one I have to focus my attention on. She needs me more. But _damn_, Susie…stop doing this to me!

"Zee-vah," I murmur, crossing the room toward my ninja. "Everything is going to be okay. Trust me."

"What's wrong?" Susie purrs. She's always been one for gossip. I should know better than to console anyone around her. Shame on me for letting myself be so incredibly influenced by her impressive chest and tight glutes and—

"Nothing's _wrong_, per se. Ziva lost her…credit card," I improvise, my mind immediately going to where it shouldn't. Ziva losing her V-card. _Oh no, oh no, oh no, oh no. Oh. No._ I blink away the thoughts, which cause a huge lump in my throat so I sound like a tool when I say, "Anyway…" through a gagging sort of cough. "Wouldn't it have been bad if I'd said your 'green card'?"

Ziva glares at me. "I believe it would have been worse if I had actually _lost_ my green card." She slinks from the room, wafting the scent of cinnamon chai toward me.

"Touché, Miss Davíd," I murmur, mesmerized.

* * *

I lead him toward the copy room, away from Susan and away from the distractions of the Lounge. "We need to figure this out, Tony, and we need to figure it out _now._"

"Ziva," he pleads, walking over to me, "I don't know what we're supposed to do. I can't be like, 'No, get rid of it,' because not only is that not right, it's just proving to _both of us_ that we were irresponsible." I say nothing in response. "And I can't really say, 'Nah, it's fine,' because it's _not_ fine, Zeev. It's … It's …"

"It was irresponsible," I agree softly. "I am sorry." He shakes his head, eyes wide. "No, Tony, it was. You are right. We should not have—"

"What's going on?" McGee asks as he rounds the corner, breaking up our conversation. His big grin is evidence that he did not hear what we were saying. "It's like I haven't seen you two all morning! Where've you been?"

Tony and I share an uneasy glance and I blurt, "I was feeling unwell earlier and since Tony was the only one who was here that early, that I trusted enough to drive me to the doctors', I had him drive me to the doctors'."

Concern crosses McGee's face and he asks, "Are you feeling better?"

"I am…sort of."

"Sort of?" His brow furrows. Tony shoots me an anxious look and I shake my head. "What's that mean?"

"I have a slight headache, but I am sure in a few hours I will feel just fine." With a smile, I add, "Thank you for worrying about me, McGee."

"Sure," he says, patting my shoulder. "Anytime." He checks his watch and then thrusts a folder at us. "These are the phone records for the Mosely case. I have to go help Gibbs in Interrogation, but then we need to start calling ex-girlfriends." He is gone in a matter of moments, which gives us time to think and discuss.

There is silence for a while, though, until Tony finally says, "So…I honestly don't know what to tell Gibbs."

"It slipped?" I ask, smiling. My attempt at keeping the conversation light fails as Tony's face goes completely blank. At first I assume it is because he is worried about our situation, but I then sense Gibbs staring into the back of my head.

"What slipped?" our boss slowly inquires. "And do I want to know?"

Tony stands slightly behind me, enough so his leg touches mine. Even the slightest touch reassures me. "Boss, there's something we have to tell you…You're going to be upset, but we're telling you either way."

"Yeah, DiNozzo?" Piercing blue eyes hit us full force.

"I'm…pregnant," I finally admit, breaking eye contact and staring at the floor. It does not surprise me that Gibbs says nothing, but storms out of the room.

_Well, that could have gone worse._

* * *

_A/N: **::grins::**_

_PS: I cannot believe this is happening. **::glares at monkey sitting at his desk::** -Z  
PSS: Oh, please...that hurts. **::sips coffee::** Besides, I am not a monkey. -T  
PSSS: Vance's office. Both of you. Now. -G_


	2. Porcelain White

_A/N: Another day, another chapter, and I still don't know where it's going. But, that's okay. Just read and enjoy it! **::grins::** _

**_Disclaimer_**_: I don't own NCIS. Do you understand that yet? Hahaha...I don't own the romance movies on Encore either._

* * *

"He is angry," I state, staring after Gibbs.

"Y'think, Ziva?" Tony groans. "Damn. This is just great. Just _perfect_. Our boss hates us, we're having a baby, and, oh yeah! Did I mention that our boss hates us?" He glances over his shoulder and jumps. There stands Director Vance, chewing on a mentholated toothpick. "Director Vance…Hello. How much did you hear?" My partner gives a nervous chuckle, and shifts his weight from foot to foot.

"Enough to wonder if I'm having a nightmare or not," Director Vance murmurs, twirling his toothpick between his thumb and forefinger. "Why does Gibbs hate you? And why did you say 'baby' and 'we're' in the same sentence?" When neither Tony nor I answer, Vance bows his head and looks at us sternly. "Miss Davíd, DiNozzo, I demand you tell me what's going on."

I cast a sidelong glance at Tony, who whimpers—almost comically—and motions for me to explain. While dredging up the synopsis of our situation, I am drowned in memories…

_A missing Navy brat and her boyfriend. Her father had insisted the boyfriend had kidnapped her and forced her into marriage. Our evidence said otherwise. Nonetheless, Gibbs and Director Vance sent us on an undercover assignment, staying at a hotel that, reportedly, had been housing the two late-teens. _

_One particular evening, there had been a dinner dance in the grand ballroom and, as guests of the hotel, we had gone and especially enjoyed ourselves with wine and hors __d'ouvres, and __had__then__retreated to our suite. I was tipsy, and he was almost there as well. After watching a markedly romantic film on __Encore__, we felt the pull between us._

_The alcohol had put a grinding halt to our inhibitions, and before we knew it, we had…connected…in a completely different way than before. And now, __**now**__, we always would be…_

_The feel of his teeth nipping at my neck, the spark that had shot down my spine when he kissed me, and his soft touch as he held me to him were enough to woo me. Adding wine to the mix had been a horrible idea and had only added to the drive._

The entire liaison had been beautiful, of course. There had always been something between us and this was the consummation of five long, emotional years during which we had denied any feelings for each other whatsoever. But now here we are, standing in the NCIS building, telling our boss(es) that we are having a child together.

I furrow my brow as my teeth dig into my cheek, and only take a breath when Director Vance nods and gives us the nonverbal message to meet him in his office. While he walks away, he tosses his toothpick at the waste bucket. I am not surprised that makes it inside.

The irresistible urge to vomit rises in my stomach and I walk quickly to the nearest bathroom, barely getting there in time before I bend over and empty its contents into the porcelain bowl. If this was how the entire pregnancy would go, I am going to need to move my desk to the restroom immediately.

Let the fun begin.

-break-

Ziva Davíd doesn't get sick. It just doesn't happen. I've known her for five years and in those five years, she has never once had the stomach flu or anything like it. Does the stomach flu even exist in the desert? Whatever. I guess it doesn't really matter. But seeing my partner rush off to puke in the first stall she reaches—and I sincerely hope she did in fact make it there, for the sake of the janitors—because she's having my kid…it's a bit disconcerting.

In her absence, Gibbs decides to use my standing all alone to his advantage. As he approaches, I can feel the angry chill radiating off of his body, and only make eye contact with him because I know that if I don't, I'm going to lose my job. Hell, I'm going to lose my job anyway, because I couldn't keep it in my pants, but it's not as noble to lose your job because you simply won't look at your boss.

I groan when he snaps, "What kind of game do you think you're playing here, DiNozzo?" Without giving me a chance to answer, he continues, "It's not funny, and it's not right for her. Do you know what she's been through?" Gibbs is pissed. _Oh. Shit._ "Rule number twelve."

"I know, Boss. I'm sorry." The only words I can think of. And they definitely don't fit.

"Rule number nine. And don't apologize to me. Apologize to her for getting her pregnant." He's silent for a moment before slapping the back of my head and hissing, "What the hell were you thinking, Tony?"

Ashamed, I break eye contact and stare at the floor. "We weren't thinking, Boss."

"Damn right, you weren't," Gibbs snaps. "So?"

My eyes glue themselves to his, searching his face. "'So' what?"

He stares at me incredulously for a moment, as if giving me a chance to answer my own question. When I don't, he raises his voice a bit and asks, "What're you going to do about it, DiNozzo?" His glare is enough to draw an answer from me.

"She doesn't want an abortion…she told me as much this morning. It's not my place to tell her what to do to her body, you know?" He nods, but I can still see he's angry. Or frustrated. Maybe even concerned? "She's carrying it to term. We'll figure it out then."

"Tony," Gibbs murmurs, dropping his voice again. There's a husky quality to it that answers my constant inner question of, 'How's he always get the girl?' That man is a Silver Fox. There isn't any doubt about it…but that's not the point, is it?

"Yeah, Boss?"

"You got a plan?" Confused, I say nothing, but look at him with my brow furrowed slightly. "You can't leave this to last minute. Vance is gonna want to know what he's supposed to expect. Figure it out." He turns on his heel and begins to walk away, but stops and says over his shoulder, "Sooner rather than later, DiNozzo." His last words, he simply walks away.

Ziva returns shortly afterward and groans when she sees me.

"What was that for?"

"Be right back." She runs back toward the ladies' room, and the last thing I see before her coughing gasps echo into the corridor is the end of her curly , brown ponytail slipping between the door and its molding.

_Let the fun begin..._ I tell myself, before taking a cursory glance around. When I see that no one is watching, I hastily follow her into the bathroom and stoop down to look below the stall doors, noticing she's kneeling in the third one from the end.

"Zeev?" I whisper, easing the door open and crouch on the tile beside her. "It'll be okay." Her shoulders are shaking and, though I don't know much about a woman's emotions—since they scare me…yikes…-I know enough to say nothing more and stick to what I _do_ know. Women like their backs rubbed. So, I rub small circles between her shoulder-blades, and then change to running my flat palm up and down her spine.

"This," she groans, spitting into the toilet and pressing the handle, "is awful."

"This, my dear," I murmur, kissing the back of her head, "is being pregnant."

_And this is me, Anthony DiNozzo, vowing to never…__**ever**__…have sex again._

_

* * *

_

A/N: Okay, so, I know, it's a **really short** chapter, but ...I was running out of inspiration. **::frowns::** Alright, I'm gonna go. I have a meeting. But I hope you enjoy it! Love, Kat


	3. Unhappy Chamomile Perfume

_A/N: I apologize for the wait on this one...I had to write a script for a play, and do a lengthy project for my computer class. I'm in a sort of limbo between being a writer for NCIS and McGee. Now, if McGee were **teaching** my class, I might actually be doing a bit better...Anyway, here you go!_

**_Disclaimer_**_: I don't own Paris. _

* * *

I am, for once, out of words. No snarky comebacks in response to Tony's incessant chatter. No ideas popping into my head regarding the Mosely case. Nothing, except for the question of what I am going to do.

I know that I should trust Tony enough to be able to reassure myself that he will stay true to his word and help with the baby. But there is that worry deep down inside me that he is like all of the other men out there. Unless we marry—which is _not_ happening, I can tell you that much—there is nothing keeping him by my side.

I love Tony. Any fool can see that. And, I am told, he loves me back. Perhaps marriage would not be such a dreadful thing. We loved each other enough to have sex in Paris, and in the hotel room, and then one other time that I am not allowed to divulge to _anyone_. Right? He would not have slept with me if he did not hold any feelings toward me at all, would he?

I am not naïve. I fully realize that the powers of seduction are very helpful when one needs information but the other party refuses. Or, when you are on a covert operation and need to draw information out of the other party in a fashion that would make it appear as though one actually loves them. For instance, Jeanne. Or, in my case, Michael, from before, when I almost died undercover. And I was the victim of Michael Rivkin's advances, was I not? Therefore, I know firsthand the powers of the powers of seduction.

So that was not what Tony was doing, was it?

As I ponder all of this and question my own conscience and common sense, my partner sits across from me, clicking madly and then, out of nowhere, typing a short blurb into his computer. His brow is deeply furrowed, his eyes sparkling and his jaw tense. He must have a lead of some sort. While I have been debating petty things, he has actually been working. That is the proof of a good man. When he can shove aside his personal life and focus purely on his job, when he has to, he is obviously devoted and worthwhile.

And I am not.

_

* * *

_

Placental detachment? Ew! A shudder goes down my spine as I click out of one window and bring up Google in another. Typing in a search of 'how often do pregnancy tests screw up?,' I glance across the bullpen for a second to see her staring at me. Her face is drawn, kind of pinched in, but I can't deny that it's pretty cute. She's obviously trying to figure out where we go from here and I'm pretty sure I have the answer. Gibbs probably won't like it, but screw that; I'm my own man. He doesn't own me.

_He just pays me_.

Well, no, _Gibbs_ doesn't pay me, but he can sure as hell fire me, and that's the only thing keeping me sane. My job. Job security is a must-have.

Anyway, he's not going to like this, and I know it through and through, but it's necessary. I've always told my father I'd never do this. That I'd man up and deal and pay child support and question my existence and blame myself for all eternity if I ever got a girl pregnant before I married her. That I wouldn't do what his cousin, Albert, did. Marry her and then divorce her the second his kid got into Harvard.

But I can't argue that in this case, in _my_ case, it's necessary. Especially if the test is legit. Doctors' offices don't screw up. It just doesn't happen. Not anymore, anyway. Sure, they have their issues sometimes but, hey, so do we. We can't all judge them. They studied for years and years to be where they are. And, technically, they just order the tests, run them, and then send them to the lab. So, therefore, in my line of thinking, I don't think the doctors are the ones to blame anyway. It's the lab techs.

Granted, my history with doctors has been pretty crappy. Jeanne was a brilliant woman and I took advantage of that. I should have refused the assignment. Director Shepherd probably would've just said, "Alright, go downstairs." At the time, I was scared shitless that she'd fire me. She was on a warpath to seek retribution for her father's death, and in finding the information she needed—that ended up not even helping the cause—a beautiful woman's heart was destroyed.

I didn't sleep for weeks because of what I did to Jeanne. I drank myself into an alcohol-induced stupor, but I wasn't rested and I didn't want to eat because I was generally too hung-over or too sick to my stomach to want food. I existed purely on gin—sometimes whiskey if I had it in the house—and saltine crackers. I was pathetic. I didn't think I'd ever get over her. Sometimes I still wish I could just hit 'Rewind' and go back to the moment I met her and say, "Hi, I'm Tony DiNozzo. I work for NCIS." No one would have been the wiser. La Grenouille wasn't trying to attack Jenny. He was trying to figure out why she was taking such a clandestine route of attacking him. And Jeanne got caught in the crosshairs.

But from that, I gained more respect for women. I think I grew up the minute my car blew up. Well, no, I grew up when she first said she loved me, or, at the latest, when I said it back. I have never said those three words to a woman I didn't actually love. No, I don't last long in relationships, but the beauty of my life is that we never make that final commitment. I meet a nice girl, we go to dinner, sleep together, she leaves the next morning, makes some obsessive comment, and I get out. Clean and to the point. If I feel a relationship is moving toward dangerous waters, I simply call her and say, "It's not working out."

Or, at least, I did. Ethel was really kind of the last of that. Ziva told me to end if it I wasn't happy. I took a 'feelings inventory,' as McGiggles called it, and realized that she was right; I wasn't happy, not in the slightest. And I called Ethel up and ended it. And then, I realized that maybe Ziva was right about a lot more than just Ethel and Jeanne and my romantic history.

I want a real woman who I can really settle down with and have a real, meaningful relationship with.

Maybe marriage is in the picture, maybe it's not. But what I do know is that this ten carat Tiffany ring isn't going to shine under our fluorescent lights unless we solve the case.

* * *

"…So then, Gibbs said, 'You were jealous of his haircut, so you slashed his throat?' and Jacobs just broke down," McGee laughs over a glass of red wine. "We're pretty sure he was flying high on something before he came into interrogation, but his statement _definitely_ was supported by all of our evidence and the testimonies of other witnesses."

I am not actually listening to him and he seems to notice. Taking a sip of wine, McGee attempts to catch my eye but fails. I am far too interested in my cup of caffeine-free chamomile tea to really pay attention to anything else.

It tastes like cotton balls mixed with perfume. Perhaps perfume-drenched cotton balls. I make a face and take another sip, even though what I really want is a beer. But I know I cannot have beverages with alcohol. _Anything for the baby…_

"I'm assuming that since you didn't say any more about feeling ill earlier, you're feeling better now?" he murmurs through a smile, popping an herb-roasted cashew into his mouth. I nod. "That's good. I'm glad it was just a fleeting thing."

"Yes, so am I." But it is not. I know that well enough. "How is your sister? I have not heard much about her since..." I trail off, catching the understanding that passes over McGee's face.

"She's okay," he answers, chewing a Brazil nut. "She's more careful now about where she eats and who she hangs out with, but she's going on to grad school."

I smile. "That is lovely, McGee. Congratulations. You must be very proud of her." McGee nods and gestures toward my now-empty teacup.

"I didn't know you were a chamomile fan, Ziva," he murmurs. "I tried it a little while ago but it just didn't taste good to me. I've got an entire box at home if you want it."

My grimace is rather large, as I can feel my lips spreading across my face in a sort of sneer. "I do not like chamomile…"

"Then why are you drinking it? You look exhausted…shouldn't you have some coffee?" McGee asks, eyeing me precariously. "You must need some caffeine."

I shake my head but say nothing. I cannot have caffeine right now. Or at least, I need to limit myself, and when it comes down to it, I would prefer to only drink caffeinated tea when I absolutely have to, instead of in small amounts whenever I want.

"Are you sure you're feeling okay?" He takes my hand gingerly. "You've been really quiet all day…"

"Yes, Tim, I am fine. Just tired and a little worn out." As an afterthought, I add, "And I am a bit overwhelmed by this case."

_And pregnant._

_

* * *

_

__


	4. Peonies Mean 'I Love You'

_A/N: Hello, again. And ... unfortunately ... farewell. The end of another story. But hey, that opens up many windows for little blurbs here and there, right? I've heard a lot of requests lately so, let's see where they take us, shall we? I hope you've enjoyed this ... _

**_Disclaimer:_**_ Ziva David isn't really pregnant. Especially not with Tony's baby. Shane Brennan has that right, and only he can make Tiva happen, even if he's opposed to it. **::shrugs::** Oh well. Hey, for that matter, I don't own NCIS, either! _

* * *

"Are you sure?" McGee asks me, taking a small sip of wine. His face would imply he is open-minded and friendly about the conversation, but his eyes hold disbelief. "I mean, are you absolutely positive?"

"I think that, as a woman, I would know how to read a pregnancy test, Tim," I tell him, scorn rolling off of my tongue. "I went to the doctor and their test was positive. The four following take-home tests also read 'pregnant'."

He shakes his head. "Whose is it, again?" My heart stops beating and I stare at him for a moment with wide eyes before pressing my lips together and fiddling with the string of my teabag. "Ziva? Who was it?"

I stare at him imploringly and declare, "You must tell no one, nor can you admonish me."

"Ziva, you know me better than that. Whose baby are you pregnant with?" McGee's voice is full of concern and I can see that he will not judge me.

Drawing a shaky sigh, I mumble, "Tony's." I have timed my response well enough, it seems, that the second the words leave my mouth, McGee raises the crystal wine glass to his lips. Shocked, he starts to choke on the acidic, delicious red liquid and takes several minutes of hacking and gagging before taking several deep breaths and finally looking at me.

"What did you do undercover?" he demands.

"No admonishing!" I remind him, on the verge of hysterics (the onset of which was quite sudden, I realize), and groan, "There was alcohol involved."

For some reason, McGee looks almost relieved to hear about the alcohol. This is a surprising reaction, as Ari most likely would have hurled insults at me. I sit there silently, wishing that I could have a beer…or four.

"Well, at least we know it wasn't because you two were, like, sober and professing your love to each other, or something," he laughs, blue eyes sparkling. When I do not answer, his smile drops quite rapidly and he repeats, "It wasn't because you were professing your love to each other, right? It was just…just a mistake, right? Ziva?"

I shake my head. It was not because of the alcohol, and I suppose it was not because we were 'professing our love for each other,' but it was definitely not a mistake. I thought perhaps it was, this morning when I received the test results, but after considering how long I have known Tony, and how much we actually _do_ care about each other—even if it _is_ plutonic…which it obviously is not—I have come to the conclusion that everything will be okay.

_Make that five beers._

* * *

"So?" Gibbs raises his eyebrows as mine furrow deep in my forehead.

"'So' what?" I return, sipping on my N/A beer. Gibbs made it clear when I showed up at his door that I wouldn't be having alcohol tonight. Obviously, he's punishing me. Showing me that I'm actually quite an irresponsible person. "No, I don't have a plan, Boss. I don't have a plan, I knocked up my coworker, and I broke about seventy of your rules. I'm an idiot."

"There's only fifty, DiNozzo," he corrects softly, "and I know you didn't get any lawyers involved. You broke seven, as far as I'm concerned." Gibbs doesn't need me to ask what those three are before he clarifies, "Let's see. One, three, four, six, eight, and eighteen. Oh, and you can't forget—"

"Twelve," I groan, raking a hand through my hair and rubbing my eyes with the other. "I know, Boss. I'm sorry." In my mind, I'm running down through the list he's spouted off.

_Never screw your partner. Or, well, you know, screw them over. Either way, that works. Don't believe what you're told; double check. If you have a secret, the best thing is to keep it to yourself. The second-best is to tell one other person if you must. There is no third best. Never say you're sorry; it's a sign of weakness. Never take anything for granted. It's better to ask forgiveness than ask permission. And, the paramount rule of them all? Never date your coworker. Damn it, DiNozzo…_

Nodding, I sip again at my beer. "Yup. I screwed up."

"Yeah?" Gibbs murmurs, crossing to the fireplace and retrieving the massive steak from its spigot. "Well, there's an easy way to fix it."

"What's that?"

"Fifteen. And once you do that, forty-five's pretty easy."

"Are those positions, boss?" I joke, taking out my pocket-knife. "You giving me sex advice?"

Gibbs stares me down, fatherly sternness pulsing from his blue crystal eyes. "_No_, DiNozzo. Those are rules."

"Oh. Right." _Always work as a team. Clean up your messes._ "Gotcha."

There's silence while we chew. Gibbs makes some of the best steak that I've ever had, and that's saying something since Jea—_Doctor Benoit_ took me to some pretty ritzy places. Suddenly, my phone beeps from its spot on the coffee table, drawing a disgruntled sigh from my boss.

_I think we need to talk.  
__Ziva._

Snapping the thing shut, I stuff as much of the steak into my mouth as I can and chew before saying, "Boss, I'm sorry, but I gotta—" Gibbs waves toward the door, effectively shutting me up.

"Fifteen."

"On it, Boss."

"Plan."

"Right, Boss."

"See you tomorrow."

"Bye, Boss." With that, I fly out the door and down the front steps of the porch to my car.

_Yes, Miss Davíd, we do._

* * *

When my doorbell rings, I all but sprint to it, straightening my blouse—and my shoulders—while smoothing my hair over one shoulder. I swing the door open and am faced with a humongous bouquet of beautiful flowers. Tony's face pops out from behind the bouquet and I catch a glimpse of both guilt and happiness spread across it.

"Hello," he greets me, thrusting the bouquet at me. "Try to name all of them."

I stare at the flowers and then glance at him, blinking several times. "Why?"

"Because! There's a meaning to them. To all of them!"

"Are you drunk?"

Tony shakes his head. "No. Gibbs wouldn't let me drink. But name them."

"Well, this one is alstroemeria, and that one is amaryllis," I state, pointing at each colorful petal. "…Anenome, carnation, freesia…I have no idea what that one i—"

"Gladiolus!" he declares enthusiastically.

I plow on with suspicion. "Okay; gladiolus, heather, hyacinth…" I smell a lavender colored flower and murmur, "Hydrangea."

I see my partner nod. "You have…" After counting in his head, he continues, "…four more."

Rolling my eyes, I look at the flowers and then heave my shoulders in a sigh. "I have no idea, Tony, but we really need to talk."

"This is us talking," Tony says softly. "After you name these, I'll tell you what they mean, and you'll understand…"

"Fine. This one is larkspur, and peony, and Queen Anne's lace, and ranunculus," I tell him, pointing to each flower as I name it. "Happy?"

"Ecstatic." He gently places the bouquet on my kitchen table and leads me to the couch. "Alstroemeria means friendship; Amaryllis means beauty; Anenome, anticipation; Carnation, pride. Freesia represents innocence; Gladiolus, strength of character. Heather means admiration and hyacinth is constancy." I stop him with a confused look. "What?"

"Why are you telling me this? And why did you bring me flowers?" I ask, searching his face.

"Because I'm going to make this right." Tony closes his eyes and continues his list. "Hydrangea means sincerity, larkspur is levity, Queen Anne's lace is sanctuary, and ranunculus is radiance."

"Okay?" I murmur, trying to comprehend his words. I am seriously considering calling for an ambulance; his forthright and giddy manner disturbs me.

"I guess my point is…" He clears his throat and, taking my hand, continues, "You're my friend. You're beautiful, funny, and strong. I'm proud of you for all that you've gone through and I admire you more than even Gibbs sometimes. You radiate this joy and happiness that makes even the toughest days worthwhile. I didn't think you and I would ever get along, but here we are just the same. And we're having a _baby_, Ziva. Yeah, that really sucks in some ways, because we're not married and we work for NCIS and it's going to be a huge responsibility, but…it's a baby nonetheless. Ours."

"Tony, what are you—"

He cuts me off with a swift hand-motion. "I don't often make promises and when I do, I know I have a tendency to not follow through. But this one means a lot to me." Tony swallows and then looks me square in the eye. "I will stay here, by your side, until whenever you want me to leave. Mi casa es su casa. My house—"

"Is your house," I jump in, translating for him. "Tony, what—" Again, he stops me from speaking.

"I will keep you safe and nothing can happen to you. If you need _anything_, you can call." I nod and wait for him to continue. When he does not, I hesitantly place my hand on his.

"Thank you, Tony," I tell him softly. "But …"

"Yeah, Zeev?"

"What does a peony represent?"

Tony looks at me, deep into my eyes, and murmurs, "I love you."

Tilting my head just so, I smile. It only takes a moment for us to understand the other perfectly.

* * *

_A/N: Well, there you go! hope you enjoyed it...**::draws heart on screen::** Stay tuned for another one! Love, Kat_


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